


Last of the Wild Cabooses

by Exdraghunt



Category: Starlight Express - Phillips/Stilgoe/Webber
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 20:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8115982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exdraghunt/pseuds/Exdraghunt
Summary: An old boxcar has been converted into a new breed of freight car, the caboose. It'll be a long, tough journey to re-discover his place on the rails.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This will be a backstory piece for our favorite caboose, CB! This piece does fit in with Greased Lightning and my other Starlight Express works (so rolling stock have two forms, and all that). Let's explore what made him the caboose we know today.

The car builders shop was an enormous building, full of half-completed cars, scattered parts, and constant motion. One freight car came aware slowly, trying to sort through the muffled noise and odd sensations from his body. His memories were scattered things, painting a broken picture of a half-remembered past. He was a . . boxcar? Yes, that was correct. One of hundreds, trundling along the rails with cargos. He remembered. . . brothers. Friends, other freight cars to spend the nights with. Their faces, their names, were gone to him. He couldn’t even remember his own name or number. 

“Hey!” There was a sudden rapping on his wooden side, a human man in the uniform of the car shop. “You! You awake?”

It was difficult for the car to focus on the worker next to him. In his true body, he didn’t truly “see” what went on, but could sense everything all around him in a way that was almost better than sight. The man’s voice, though, seemed to elude him. It was muffled and flat, like it was coming through a thick wall, and the car couldn’t seem to quite pick up on it. 

Another knock, before a sound of frustration from the human as he walked away to fetch something. As he left, the car focused back on himself. Investigating his body, which felt as though it had changed. There were things inside him, when his interior had once been empty. Berths, a stove, storage lockers. Not anything a boxcar needed. A protrusion had been added to his top, and suddenly the car knew what had happened. He’d been converted. From a boxcar into a conductor’s van. 

The first reaction was confusion. Why had they converted him? Had they been so dissatisfied with the job he had been doing as a boxcar? Then anger. How dare they perform such a drastic conversion on him! How was he supposed to take on the responsibility of being a Conductor’s Van? They didn’t carry cargo, they were full-time homes to crew members. He would be a full time home to crew members. They would sleep on his berths, cook on his stove, fill out paperwork at his desk. Even more intimate than a sleeper car. 

While the car was distracted, wondering how he would ever deal with this new life, he didn’t notice the workman coming back towards him. Until the man slapped a piece of paper onto his side and splashed something across his wooden exterior. A few mumbled words, and suddenly the car found himself changing. Shifting into his other form, humanoid with a face and two arms and two legs. Yes, he remembered this, could recall standing with identical brothers watching other cars wrestle and fight in the downtime between trains. Apparently, the spell had to be reapplied after his conversion. 

Lifting a hand, the car looked at his fingers and wiggled them experimentally. He had brand new wheels and trucks adorning his wrists, the latest four wheel arrangement. His paneling was fresh and new, no splinters or rotted planks or holes. He’d been repainted too, a bright shade of red that was vivid even in the dim overhead lights of the shop. On his chestbox, he could see that his old side-loading doors were still there, just sealed shut. New porches on his shoulderboxes, for the crew to stand, and emblazoned on his front was his new number. CB 023, his new identity. 

The workman was saying something to him again. CB 023 sat down with a thud, leaning closer to try and hear the man. The car picked up on an odd word, one he hadn’t heard before. 

“Caboose?” CB 023 repeated, wondering if he had heard right. His own voice was strange even to his ears, vibrating up through his struts but still muffled and faint. 

The workman just nodded before walking away, leaving the freight car incredibly confused. Was he supposed to sit here, then? 

He busied himself by looking at his feet, grateful at least that they had upgraded his trucks to the latest freight car model. One thing he remembered of his boxcar life was the very uncomfortable, jarring ride he’d developed later in his career. Distantly, CB 023 wondered if his face had changed. If his old brothers and friends would still recognize him. Hard to tell, he had no reflective surface in which to examine himself. Reaching up, the freight car felt the strap under his chin holding his hat on, and traced the outline of glass signal lamps set into each cheek. No, they probably would not recognize him as he was now. 

CB 023 sat there for a while longer, idly watching the activity around the shops. He was still confused by the apparent trouble he was having with his hearing, everything seemed muffled and far away. Maybe it was just a symptom of being rebuilt, and would go away on its own?

 

The next morning, two men entered the car shop. Conductor Ernst Howard had fifteen years for the railway under his belt, and was there to receive his new assigned caboose. With him was his young brakeman, Terry, who was very excited to see his soon-to-be home. Neither men were expecting to see their caboose in his human form, sitting on the ground but still taller than either of them. Ernst just barely came up to the top of the thing’s shoulder boxes, and he was taller than your average man. 

The freight car didn’t seem to have noticed them, even though neither man was attempting to keep silent. Ernst checked his orders again. Yep, he’d been assigned to caboose number CB 023, and that matched the numbers painted on this car’s chestbox. 

“Hey, you! Caboose!” He called up. Finally, the freight car turned to look at them. Bright blue eyes focused, the car tilting his head curiously, and the signal lamps on his cheeks glowed. Ernst shuddered a little, still unused to the eerily almost-human appearance of rolling stock. The painted face was convincing, but still that of a machine. 

Terry, meanwhile, was quivering with excitement. His very own caboose, he couldn’t wait. Sure, it wasn’t actually his, the car had been assigned to his conductor, but Terry had had a very good run with Ernst so far. He couldn’t contain himself any longer. “Hi, I’m Terry, I’ll be your new brakeman!”

Still no response from the car, who simply tilted his head the other way like a puppy confused by its master’s orders and leaned a little closer to them. 

“Uh, I thought rolling stock could talk?” Terry turned to the older man next to him with some confusion. 

“They can.” Ernst muttered. “This one just must be particularly stupid. Hey! Can you understand me?!”

Finally, the caboose opened his mouth. “Hello? Can you speak louder? I can’t hear you.”

Ernst stared, flabbergasted. He had yelled the last statement, and somehow this car still couldn’t hear him? What’s more, the thing spoke with an odd muffled slur to his words, like he was talking through cotton. Or as though he couldn’t hear his own voice. “What the fuck? We’ve been given a deaf crummy! Hey!”

The shop foreman wandered over, attracted by the noise, “What’s this then? Get that caboose changed and out of my shop!”

“The damn thing is deaf!” Ernst exclaimed, turning his ire onto the shop worker. “What are you playing at, giving us a deaf caboose?”

CB 023 watched the two men yelling back and forth at each other, occasionally catching a word here and there. The main one that kept getting bandied around was “deaf.” Was that what he was? It would explain why everything sounded so strange, why he couldn’t seem to understand the humans that were speaking to him. He didn’t remember being deaf from Before, so it must have happened during the conversion. Would he be put down now, scrapped for being defective? 

“We don’t have the stock to spare another.” The foreman finally concluded. “You’ll just have to take this one and live with it. It’s not like it has to hear anyway, it’s just a car.”

“Uh, Skipper?” Terry finally spoke up, having stayed silent during the yelling match to watch CB 023 instead. The caboose appeared to be able to hear at least something, even if not understand specific words. In fact, the car reminded him of his younger sister, who’d lost her hearing in an accident at a young age. “What if we try to teach him sign language?”

Ernst turned to stare at the younger man. “What?”

“I mean. I know sign because my little sister is deaf. It could be real useful.” Terry hastened to explain. “Can’t hurt, right?”

The old conductor threw up his hands. “You want to teach it sign language, go right ahead. Now, can you get it to change shape?”

Right. He could do that. Assuming he was correct and the caboose could hear a little bit. “Hey!” Terry waved his arms, making sure the caboose was looking right at him before continuing. “You.” He pointed at CB 023, making sure the car understood. “Change?” 

A slight frown furrowed the caboose’s face, but after a moment he nodded. Terry gave Ernst a smug grin as they watched their new home shift into the more familiar form of a square, homely caboose. 

“Alright, come on kid. Let’s load up.” The two men climbed aboard, relieved to see the interior of their caboose was completely normal and average. If a bit plain, some re-decorating was clearly going to be in order. 

The shop’s small shunting locomotive came over and gave the caboose a shove out the door of the shop and onto the caboose track outside. CB 023’s new crew spent the next few hours loading up their caboose with everything he would need to work. Flags and fusees were stacked near the door, bedding located for the berths, and his locker was filled with oil and waste for treating overheating axle bearings on cars. A selection of banged up and dented pots and cooking supplies were put on top of the stove, sturdy iron bands slid overtop to keep the pans from rattling off. As a final touch, Ernst and Terry stuffed as much food as they could fit into his cork-lined icebox. Heaps of potatoes, slabs of meat, and cartons upon cartons of eggs. By the time all was said and done, CB 023 felt like he’d gained an extra ton. 

A pot of coffee was started up on the stove, filling the caboose with its smell, and just when it was about ready to pour a locomotive came in to pick them up. There was a jerk as CB 023 was coupled up to the engine, and then they were off down the rails in a “caboose hop.”

It was so very strange, to be the only car being pulled by an engine. No other boxcars rattling beside him, or flat cars or tankers. His were the only wheels clattering against the track, not that he could really hear it anymore anyway. He could feel it, at least, the steady, rhythmic clack of his wheels passing over the seams of the rails. The steady “whuff” of the chuffing engine in front of him was also audible, but just barely, felt down in the bass register that vibrated his wooden slat sides. 

To be honest, it was lonely. Cars were meant to work as part of a train, not alone like this. Engines were mostly aloof from the cars, keeping to their own kind, unless, of course, some physical attention was needed. 

The ride, at least, wasn’t a long one. Just a jaunt down the tracks to a freight yard, where lines upon lines of cars filled the sidings. CB 023 watched them, reading their numbers and wondering if any of the boxcars were his old brothers. No way of telling, he didn’t even remember his own road number from before his conversion. 

There were a few cars in their mech forms too, who turned to watch as the new car rolled into the yard. Cabooses were still relatively new to the rails, but the bright red paint scheme made them hard to miss. Cars, engines, and humans alike stopped what they were doing to watch the new caboose roll into the yard, though whether they made any comment CB 023 couldn’t tell. The engine in front of him switched onto a siding, then pushed the caboose up against a long line of boxcars. That done, the engine ran around to the front of the train and coupled up himself. Preparing to pull the train out of the yard. 

CB 023 wondered idly just where they were headed and what kind of run they were on. The boxcars were all sealed up tight, giving no clue as to what their contents were, and though his crew was seated inside going through paperwork and discussing that day’s activities, the caboose couldn’t make out more than a word here and there. Resignedly, the freight car returned to watching the passing scenery rolling on by. Truly, there wasn’t much else to do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the brakeman waves from the red caboose  
> He's part of the past, never quite turns loose  
> It's part of the soul and a heart and the mind  
> Of a boy who's raised by the railroad line
> 
> -"Raised by the Railroad Line" Chris LeDoux

The train continued on late into the afternoon, rambling along the rails and towards the east. Ernst sat at his desk, filling out paperwork, while Terry lounged up in the cupola and idly watched the train of boxcars in front of him. The brakeman had his eyes on the train, but he was mouthing words softly and waving his hands. CB 023 found himself focusing on the human as he continued on, curious about the hand and arm movements he was making. It seemed purposeful, tied to whatever he was saying. 

The caboose was paying so much attention to his crew member, he almost missed a certain smell wafting down from further along the train. After a moment, though, he placed the familiar scent. The smoke from a hotbox. 

CB 023 was so surprised he locked his brakes, and the sheer fact that he had the ability to lock his own brakes made him release them again. The entire train jerked, cars rocking against their couplings, and the crew inside the caboose were forced to hang on at the sudden surge. 

“What n’ the hell was that?” Ernst straightened his hat, which had gone askew when his face bounced off his desk, and looked up into the cupola. 

“Wasn’t me!” Terry swore, staring at the brake lever next to him. He was certain that he hadn’t touched it, the thing had seemed to just move by itself.

“Well see if you can figure out what happened.” Ernst started gathering up the paperwork that had slid from the desk and onto the floor. 

Terry edged up the window on the cupola and poked his head out, seeing if he could spot whatever had caused the sudden jerk on the train. Nothing suspicious made itself known, except a whisp of smoke from a few cars ahead. “Skipper, we got a hot box. We gotta stop anyway.”

Slowly, ponderously, the train came to a halt. The axle of one of the boxcars was smoking heavily, the lubricant inside starting to burn for lack of fresh oil.

Ernst gave a heavy sigh, standing from his desk and walking over to the door. “I’ll get the oil n’ waste. You go out and flag the track.”

Terry grabbed a pair of red flags on his way out, hopping down onto the wooden ties and gravel ballast before setting off down the track. He paused, however, when he heard his name shouted. 

“And take the caboose with you!” Ernst, who had just finished getting supplies out of the caboose’s possum belly, slammed the compartment shut and started making his way up the train. 

“Take th-?” Terry looked back at the car, then shrugged. Ernst was the boss. But how to get the caboose to follow him. “Hey! HEY!” He waved his arms, then gave a big ‘follow me’ gesture. “THIS WAY”

There was a long pause as Terry wondered if this would work, then suddenly the outline of the caboose blurred and became an enormous, humanoid shape. The caboose knelt down to look at Terry curiously, and the brakeman gulped. It was still ridiculously intimidating to be towered over by railroad cars, no matter how long he’d worked in the business, and he swore the bright blue eyes staring at him now were far more intelligent than anyone else gave rolling stock credit for. 

Terry waved again, then started off down the track. After he’d gotten a few yards, he turned back and waved once more. Finally, the caboose got to his wheels and followed. 

The two travelled in relative silence, Terry counting his paces aloud until he’d gotten the required distance down the track to plant his flags. Not that he really needed to, a 30 foot red caboose was certainly more noticeable than a pair of flags, but this was his job. Behind him, CB 023 rolled quietly. Without an engine to power him, the caboose wasn’t particularly fast, wheels rolling down the rail at about the speed of Terry’s walking. He didn’t even need to unclip his wheels from the rail flange to stride for more speed. 

Finally, Terry felt he’d gone a fair distance from his train and planted both flags before having a sit-down on the grass beside the track. With surprising delicacy, CB 023 sat down next to him and folded his legs up. 

“Okay, so-“ Terry frowned, looking up at the caboose as he realized the car didn’t have a name. He knew that most rolling stock had names they shared amoungst themselves, but human workers didn’t often use them, save for the engineers who worked so closely with their engines. “You need a name, my friend.” It would have to be something easy to sign, and quick to learn. Staring up at the caboose, Terry considered the car’s road number. “What about just ‘CB’? That’s a good name.”

CB 023 didn’t react beyond a slight furrowing of his brow, having clearly understood none of what the human had said. 

“Hmm, okay.” Terry made the signs for ‘C’ and ‘B’ with his hand, then pointed at the caboose. He repeated the motion, then gestured for the car to try. 

Still confused by just what was going on, CB 023 repeated the motions that his brakeman was making with his own hand. Though he was technically freight, his hands were delicate and nimble. More like a coach’s than a freight car. Appropriate, he mused, since he carried only humans and no goods. 

Another repetition, and the caboose realized that the symbols he was making represented his name. Excited pointing by Terry towards the letters of his road number assisted this. He had apparently lost his numbers and was now just “CB.” As he couldn’t remember the name he had been called before his conversion, this suited the caboose just fine. 

Terry couldn’t really teach him the other letters of the alphabet, since he had nothing to write on or patches of dirt to trace letters in. Hell, he wasn’t even sure a caboose knew how to read. Instead, he settled for pointing at things and signing their names. CB was quick to pick up on the words for ‘grass’ and ‘rail’ and ‘gravel’, and even learned Terry’s name. 

Finally, the sound of the locomotive’s whistle summoned them both back to the train. Four long blasts and one short, calling the rear flagman back. Terry hefted himself to his feet, gathered his flags, and started the slow walk back. With a gentle creak of wood and the whisper of oiled mechanics, CB found his wheels as well and followed.

Reaching the rear of the train, CB transformed once more. Terry checked his coupling to make sure it was secure, then waved to Ernst as the old conductor climbed aboard the rear platform of the caboose. Another hoarse whistle from the locomotive sounded, two blasts the signal to release the brakes of the train. Terry took his brake-club and clambered up on top of CB’s roof to start the walk atop the freight cars to release their brakes one-by-one. Finally, they could proceed. 

 

The train continued on its way, finally rumbling into a yard well after dark. A switching engine came to take the freight cars, while their engine was sent off to the roundhouse and CB was shunted to the caboose track. All around him were the dark shapes of other cabooses, quiet with their sleeping crews. The other cars were all identical in appearance, with their red paint and center cupolas, made unique only by the numbers on their sides. 

Over in the freight yard, there would be dancing and fights, singing and socializing. But the cabooses were stuck in their car form as long as their crews were inside. Though CB was surrounded by his brethren, he felt lonely all the same.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to resign from the human race  
> Wipe those tears from your lovely face  
> Baby, wave to the man in the ol' red caboose  
> Before all hell breaks loose
> 
> -"Before all hell breaks loose" Kinky Friedman

As the next few days passed, CB got used to his crew, and his crew to him. Terry quickly broadened the caboose’s vocabulary after discovering the car could, in fact, read (if only rather slowly), and Ernst ended up being dragged along rather grumpily because the only way for him to communicate with CB was to either use Terry as a translator, or learn sign. The front brakeman, who rode in the cab of the locomotive, was not as familiar to CB, for the man only came to the caboose for meals and to sleep, but was a friendly figure all the same. 

Theirs was a lively little corner of the line, and CB was kept busy escorting freight trains from corner of his territory to the other. Unlike the other freight cars, which ranged across the land from road to road, CB stayed only on the company rails, and was replaced by another caboose when the train left his area of operation. He never really had a chance to spend time with any of the other freight cars before they were gone again. 

Gradually, the locomotives became familiar to him, for they, too, stayed only on company rails. Most engines paid little attention to the freight cars, however, unless they were looking for a way to satisfy certain desires. And so, CB tried to find friendship in his fellows, the other cabooses. One night, when his crew was away for a few hours to enjoy themselves before retiring to their bunks, he skated over to where he could see a few other cabooses talking. 

At first, the other cabooses of the line were more than eager to meet their new brother. But it didn’t take long for them to find out that this new caboose wasn’t quite like them. He talked funny, always too loud with a slur to his words, and couldn’t hear them when they spoke. 

“Why, this waycar is deaf!” Caboose 16 exclaimed after CB’s attempt to introduce himself.

“Deaf?” Caboose 10 laughed, “Who ever heard of a deaf crummy? How’d you even pass inspection?”

CB, unaware of what they were saying but able to tell that they were laughing at him, could only shrug. 

The other trainfolk roared with laughter. “’E’s dumb is what ‘e is.” Caboose 25 guffawed. “Lookit ‘is face! ‘E won’t last a month, I’d wager. You gotta have brains to be a caboose.”

Scowling, CB spun and skated off to leave them to their jokes. He should’ve known this wouldn’t end well. It’s not like any of the other cars on the road could speak with their hands, who’d want to be his friend anyway? CB wasn’t quite sure if he wanted to cry or break something. Eventually, ‘break something’ won out.

Coming up on one of the storage sheds in the yard, CB gave a roar of fury and punched the wooden wall with all the force of his anger behind it. The wall gave under his fist, splintering under the onslaught. CB’s fingers dug into the hole he had created, ripping off a plank from the shed so he could crack it over his knee. Then those pieces were doubled and broken again, and again, until all that was left were shards too small to break. 

Meanwhile, Brakeman Terry and Conductor Ernst had come back from a nearby bar to find that their home-on-wheels wasn’t quite where they’d left it. At first, the pair thought that maybe the switch engine had moved CB while they were out, but after an examination of the nearby tracks, concluded that the caboose must’ve up and left in human form. 

“I’ll go find him, Skipper.” Terry promised, taking off at a jog. He knew that the freight cars sometimes gathered at night not too far away, but the laughing faces of the cabooses were not the one he was so familiar with. 

Terry was walking back, hands in his pockets as he tried to figure out where CB could’ve gone (after attempting to call out the car’s name like one might call a dog or lost child, then giving up when he belatedly realized that CB couldn’t hear him anyway) when his attention was drawn by the sound of something breaking nearby. 

Following it, he was a little surprised to see a familiar figure standing in the gloom behind a shed, shoulders heaving as he panted heavily. Terry hadn’t been seen yet, and wasn’t sure if he wanted to approach close enough to touch the caboose, so he settled for cupping his hands around his mouth and yelling “HEY” as loud as he could. 

CB whipped around, and Terry took a step back despite himself. In the dark, the only things that really stood out were the blazing red of the caboose’s signal lamps and the glowing of his icy blue eyes. It gave the car quite a fierce countenance indeed, and Terry was reminded the feral dog he’d had to put down last summer because it had attacked him on the roadside. 

“Whoa.” Terry put up his hands, demonstrating that he was no threat (not that any brakeman could hope to be a threat to a 30-foot, 20 ton railroad car), before cautiously signing the caboose’s name. ‘CB. It’s me. Terry. T-e-r-r-y. Brakeman.’

Slowly, CB’s fearsome expression relaxed. He shook his head slightly and looked down at the splinters of wood littered about his wheels. Turning back to his brakeman, he signed a simple ‘sorry’.

Confused but not wanting to press the freight car for details, Terry simply led him back to the caboose track and watched as CB changed shape. Finally, the brakeman breathed a sigh of relief and climbed aboard. Ernst was right behind him, looking at the younger man curiously. 

“Trouble finding it?” The old conductor asked as he settled down on his bunk. 

“A little.” Terry admitted. “I thought he might be with the other cars, but he was out behind one of the sheds instead. Seemed real mad about something. I was. . . I was a bit scared of him.”

“Nothin’ to worry about.” Ernst reassured, pulling a thin blanket over himself. “Cars can’t hurt people, on purpose at least. They’re magicked against it.”

“I know.” The fact that Terry knew that CB couldn’t deliberately hurt him didn’t make a pissed off 20-ton railroad car any less scary. 

The brakeman laid back in his own bunk, staring up at the wooden ceiling of the caboose through the dark. “I think. Maybe. He might’ve tried to talk to the other cabooses and they made fun of him.”

Ernst gave a dismissive grunt, “So?”

“I dunno. I guess it’s kinda sad.” Terry mused. “CB not being liked by any of the other cars. They probably won’t even talk to him.”

There was a grumble from Ernst as he looked over at his brakeman. “This crummy ain’t your kid or cute puppy or something. You don’t gotta hold its hand and take it to playdates. It’s just a railroad car.”

“He.” Terry corrected. “I can’t think of him as an it. When I talk to him sometimes, I swear he’s smarter than just some car.”

“You gotta remember, cars ain’t no smarter than a dog that can talk.” Ernst said firmly. “They ain’t human, and ain’t like us. Don’t get too attached.”

A shaft of light fell into the room as the door creaked open, letting in the front brakeman and signaling an end to the conversation. Terry fell into an uneasy sleep, unable to stop picturing those angry, hurt, glowing blue eyes he had seen earlier that evening.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But I rode to the county seat in state  
> In the red caboose of the local freight  
> And watched the track slip out and away  
> With the telegraph pole, across the plain;  
> Prairie and track and the moving train
> 
> \- Maude K. Backlund

The next morning, everything seemed fine as their freight train was arranged by the yard’s switching engine. A rather stubby little tank engine, the switcher looked almost comical ordering about the boxcars as he tried to arrange them into order. Cars going to the same destination were grouped together, then ordered by who was getting off where along the trip. It was tricky business for the switcher, who had to know all of this and order them properly. 

Boxcars, of course, didn’t care much about that and preferred to scuffle with each other and yell at friends across the yard while the switching engine tried to push them about. After much shoving and hollering, the freight cars eventually all stood in the proper order on the same track. Holding each other’s couplers, they shifted into car form so that the human crew could inspect them as well. 

CB followed along curiously as Conductor Ernst and Brakeman Terry walked the train, checking the door-tags of each boxcar against the freight manifest. Terry would call out the numbers on the little lead seals on each door, then sign them to CB so he could learn his numbers. The caboose would sign them back, while Ernst, on the opposite side of the train, jotted them down in his train book. The numbers, along with the car’s road number, told where the car had come from and to whom it belonged. The car’s destination was recorded on small cards, a stack of which Ernst was carrying. Each car had a card, and the card would pass from conductor to conductor until their destination was reached. 

It was tedious work, particularly for CB, who had to squint to see the small numbers that were a perfectly reasonable size to humans, but after the previous night CB was determined to show that he was not, in fact, just some dumb car. He wanted to know -everything.- 

Finally, everything was determined to be in order and the train received clearance to move out on to the main line. CB skated up to the end of the train and took his place, then his crew climbed aboard. Their engine slowly began to move, the slack between each car pulling taut with a resounding metallic clang. The bangs of the slack action came closer and closer, until CB was suddenly jerked forward and the whole train got moving. 

 

Leaving the yard, the train picked up speed and was soon rumbling down the tracks at a decent pace (for a freight train, at least.) There was very little for CB to do now except sit and watch the telegraph poles go by. Out here there was nothing except rolling hills and farmer’s fields. Occasionally they’d rattle through a town, the whistle of the engine sounding out a warning before they rolled past a road crossing the tracks. A few buildings would mark the settlement, children gathering to wave at the train as it rolled by. 

Towns were few and far between out here, though, and for many miles the only interest, besides the cows grazing along the right-of-way, were the semaphore signals ticking off their passing. The white markers would shift from ‘clear’ to ‘danger’ as the freight train rolled past, not to return to ‘clear’ until the train had reached the next signal, to keep following trains from entering a length of trackage already occupied by another train. Idly, CB wondered how dull the life of one of the operators was, sitting in their little shack waiting for a train to go by so they could throw their levers, over and over all day long. 

After several hours on the rails, the train pulled into a siding to wait for a passenger train. The gleaming trains with their many people had priority over simple freight, and could put the other trains ‘in the hole’ to await their passing. Terry climbed onto the roofs of the swaying freight cars in response to the engine’s whistle, pinning down the brakes on each car one by one until the train finally came to a halt. 

From his lofty vantage point, Terry looked happily out over the field next to their siding. Corn as far as the eye could see, and it was getting ripe too. 

“Hey, Skipper!” The young brakeman said cheerfully as he swung down from the roof back onto the porch of the caboose. “We’re gonna have corn for dinner tonight!”

Ernst glanced out the window and nodded, fishing out a couple empty burlap sacks and tossing one to his brakeman. The two hopped down onto the ground and slipped through the wire fence surrounding the field of corn. Quickly, the pair went to work nabbing ears of corn from the two rows nearest the tracks and stuffing them into their bags. 

Confused but curious, CB transformed and sat down to better watch the antics of his crew. 

Ernst was definitely the faster of the two pickers, giving each ear of corn a cursory glance before tossing it into his bag. Terry, in contrast, spent a little more time examining each one to be assured of its ripe-ness before taking it off the stalk.

Soon, the two has filled both their bags and headed back for the caboose. CB lifted a hand to sign a question to Terry when the brakeman suddenly dropped his bag of corn and held up both hands in a frantic ‘STOP’ gesture. The caboose froze immediately, staring at the two humans with wide eyes. 

Terry pointed at something, making CB carefully turn his head and look down to see a chicken pecking at the dirt near his other hand. Unsure of what to do, CB could only turn back to his crew members and mouth “what do I do?”

In response, Terry signed ‘grab it!’ and mimed slitting his neck. 

Moving surprisingly quickly for a railroad car, CB nabbed the bird in his large hand in one swift motion. The chicken squawked and screeched in distress, trying to escape from the metal monster who had it trapped. CB stared at it for a moment, then with a twitch from his thumb snapped its neck. 

The squawking stopped abruptly, so CB unclenched his fist and looked down at the limp little body in his hand. It was so easy to extinguish the life of an organic creature, a simple move from his hand and it went from alive to dead. Trainfolk could be rebuilt after all but the worst crashes, but the slightest damage to something organic and they were gone. 

CB let the body of the chicken slip to the ground, where Terry quickly grabbed it and stuffed it into the sack along with his corn. The brakeman then motioned for CB to transform, hoping to hide their spoils before the farmer came after his errant chicken and discovered their ‘scavenging.’

The caboose plucked a few feathers from his finger joints, then obeyed and shifted shape. Conductor and Brakeman quickly scrambled aboard, Terry stowing the corn in their cork-lined reefer while Ernst went to the stove to stoke up the coal fire. Chicken and corn for dinner tonight. 

As the two worked to prepare their dinner, a whistle sounded from the west. Not that of their locomotive, but another in the distance. Soon, the tracks began to vibrate, signaling a train on the approach, and the chuff of a racing engine could be heard. 

Like rolling thunder, the express passenger train they were waiting for blew past, easily doing twice the speed of a laden freight train like theirs. CB got a quick glance of a couple seated in the elegant dining car, raising their china teacups towards the stopped freight train, before the string of varnish was gone. Leaving only the red lights of the observation car in the distance. 

That was their cue to get ready to move, and sure enough, it wasn’t long before the whistle of their own locomotive was calling for the brakes to be released. Terry scrambled to do his job, and slowly they got underway again. 

Once they were rolling once more, Terry took the chicken from its sack and hung the limp fowl from a rope on the back porch of the caboose. As the train clattered down the tracks, the brakeman worked at plucking the bird for dinner, leaving a trail of down and feathers in their wake.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little red caboose behind the train  
> Smoke stack on its  
> Back, back, back, back  
> Coming down the  
> Track, track, track, track  
> Little red caboose behind the train  
> Last car on the end, end, end, end
> 
> -"Little Red Caboose"

Though cabooses were considered freight cars, CB felt almost nothing like the other cars in the train. This life was utterly new, a constant learning experience as CB settled into his role as cookhouse, freight car, service car, coach. 

One thing that CB missed about life as an ordinary freight car, what little he could remember of that time, was having power in numbers. Boxcars were almost never alone, finding and bonding with others of their kind all across the nation from road to road. They were also a force to be reckoned with, frequent yard fist-fights to pass the time meaning that freight cars were always in the shape to take on all comers despite their relatively slight, light-weight frames. 

It was the nature of a caboose, in contrast, to always be alone. There was only ever one per train, except in the rare instances a second caboose was needed to carry errant passengers or stock-hands making trips to market with their cattle. Given CB’s experiences with other cabooses, this didn’t bother him so much. 

On the nights when his crew was out drinking and having fun, the car got into the habit of wandering around the railroad yard, observing the activity of the other rolling stock. There was little else to do, unless he wanted to sit around on the dark caboose track. 

Their yard was divided into distinct parts, which also served to separate the different kinds of rolling stock. The locomotives had their roundhouse, a grand structure curling around a turntable where the engines got fed and watered for the night before being bedded down by their human crews, as well as their repair shop, washdown, and coaling towers. Truly, this was the nicest and grandest part of the yard. 

Then there were the coaches, kept between the engines and the station, who had sheds to keep them dry and warm in the winter, and wash downs and shops where their upholstery was vacuumed and their woodwork varnished ‘til it gleamed. 

In contrast, the freight cars were simply kept on long stretches of track in the yard, no facilities of their own. There were some open-sided sheds over parts of the track, for shelter if the weather got bad, but otherwise the freight was on their own. 

The few tracks nearest the car shop, where repairs were done, were set aside for the cabooses. This was more for the convenience of the human crews who lived in them than anything else. 

Silently, CB changed shape and rose up from his place on the caboose track, carefully moving through a few other sleeping cabooses. His desire to avoid other rolling stock had forced him to develop rather good skills at creeping about relatively quietly and unnoticed. His signal lamps were dark, and the oil lamps that normally lit his interior had been extinguished. 

In the freight yard, someone had nicked fusees from somewhere and spaced them at regular intervals on the trackside. The red glow as they burned created markers for slalom, and several boxcars and flat cars were in the midst of a skate battle. Their wheels wove expertly in and out of the markers, spinning and turning so fluidly it was hard to believe they were clunky freight cars. 

CB watched, fascinated by how they moved. He was pretty sure he could do that too, but was reluctant to jump out and join. He wouldn’t be welcome, that much he knew. Like everything, CB would simply have to practice alone. Lately, he’d been doing that a lot. CB now read as well as, or better, than most humans, and had determinedly been teaching himself how to decipher the moving lips of others so that he did not have to depend on finding the rare person who knew how to talk with their hands. 

So engrossed was CB in observing the dancing of the freight cars, he failed to notice someone coming up behind him until a heavy hand landed on his shoulderbox. Whipping around, CB found himself staring into the face of one of the large freight engines. And the steamer didn’t look friendly. 

“Well then. A little caboose lurking around the yard.” The engine grinned, baring his teeth in a manner that was in no way reassuring. “Where’s your crew?”

CB could only frown. The engine was speaking too quickly, and it was too dark, for him to have any hope of reading the other’s lips. 

Seeming confused by the lack of a response, the steamer looked closer and had a spark of recognition. “Why, you’re the dumb one who can’t hear! Why don’t we have some fun?”

Using his greater height and bulk, the engine backed CB into a corner against one of the sheds. The caboose wasn’t entirely sure what was happening, but he got the idea pretty quick when a large hand found its way to his codpiece. He tried to say something, tried to yell ‘Get your damn hands off of me!’ but the moment he opened his mouth there was a hand over it. All that got out were some angry, muffled shouts. 

The body that pressed against his was hot, steel and iron kept almost unbearably warm by the fire burning in the engine’s chest, and CB couldn’t help but sputter when a burst of steam vented right in his face. The engine only laughed, the hand on CB’s crotch getting rougher and more forceful. 

When the hand covering his mouth slipped a little, CB decided he’d had enough of this and took his chance. Opening his mouth, he bit down on the soft plating right between the thumb and forefinger, making the engine howl in pain and step back. He rubbed the bite marks, then struck out with a blinding backhand that threw CB to the ground and cracked the signal lamp on his right cheek. 

Now truly angered, the hulking steamer crouched down over the rattled caboose. “Yer gonna regret doing that, crummy.” His lower body pinned CB’s legs, and both hands trapped the caboose’s arms above his head. CB wriggled and fought, trying to find some leverage, when there was a shout from nearby. 

“HEY HOG! Get the hell off my waycar!” It was Conductor Ernst, looking as threatening as his 5 foot 6 inch frame could manage. 

The engine paused, before giving CB one last nasty look and releasing the caboose. No rolling stock could disobey a direct order from railroad staff, even crew that was not their own. Regaining his wheels, the steamer skated off. 

“Damn Joe, he needs to keep a better leash on his engine.” Ernst muttered, watching as CB slowly pushed himself back upright. Lifting a hand, the man clumsily signed “R U OK?” 

CB shook his head, signing back that he was fine. He turned his lights on to prove it, but his right signal lamp sputtered and died. He winced at the burst of pain that resulted. Sighing, Ernst gestured for the caboose to follow him and the two slowly made their way back to the caboose track. 

 

The damage to CB’s lamp didn’t self-repair overnight, so Terry solved the problem by fetching a new glass lens from the car shop. Soon, CB was as good as new. He didn’t forget the face of the engine that had damaged him, though, and swore he’d pay him back somehow. Some day. 

 

Once the day’s run was finally finished, Ernst, Terry, and the forward brakeman brought out pails of soapy water and brushes to start scrubbing their caboose clean. This was another new experience for CB; getting frequent washes. Train crews took great pride in their little home-on-wheels, and endeavored to keep them as clean and presentable as possible. The only cars on the road that were shinier were the passenger consists. 

After every trip, the hoses and the brushes came out so that Terry, Ernst, and the front brakeman could scrub until his red paint glowed. A car could get used to this kind of treatment. 

One evening, CB returned to his home yard particularly filthy. It was harvest season, and the teams of horses pulling their threshers and harvesters sent up plumes of dust that travelled miles around. CB irritably trundled on behind a string of rattling boxcars, grit and dirt settling into every conceivable orifice he had. His crew wasn’t safe either, for it was too hot to travel with the windows closed. The curtains they had hung in the windows (the source of much mockery from other train-men) helped some when kept drawn, but nothing could really keep the all-penetrating dust out. 

Reaching the end of the line, CB was hitched onto a returning freight that brought him back to his home yard. Thoroughly glad to be back, Ernst and Terry immediately set about stripping off their dirtied clothing and changing into something nicer. Both men had leave coming, which meant a time to go to their real homes, and to their families. Their caboose would be left alone until they returned. 

As his crew bundled up their things and prepared to leave, CB transformed and gestured to himself, indicating the dust that still coated his frame. 

‘Sorry,’ Terry signed, ‘Have to catch the next train. Wash yourself?’ He made motions like he was scrubbing himself and pointed in the direction of the yard washracks. ‘Bye!’

Frowning, CB crossed his arms and watched his crew leave. Wash himself, the very thought. That’s what human crews were for. 

Eventually, CB realized that he could either stay dirty until his crew returned in a few days, or seek out one of the yard’s washracks to clean himself. Cleaning himself quickly won out. He had gotten rather used to being kept washed, and had no desire to loaf about filthy and dirty. 

There were two washdowns in the yard, one for the coaches and one for the engines. CB knew he’d never be able to use the one for the engines, they’d throw a little freight car like him right back out. Plus, he ran the risk of seeing a -certain- engine again, who probably wouldn’t hesitate to make a second go for ‘a little fun.’

No, the coach washdown was the safer bet. As long as he managed to go when no coaches would be there. 

In the dead of night, CB made his way to the washdown. The only train up that time of night should be the Night Owl, which had already departed the station on its nightly run. Hopefully, all the rest of the coaches would be asleep in their sheds and he could quickly nip in to wash off. 

The washrack was a good-sized structure. Half of it was constructed so that human crews could clean out the coaches, the other half had water nozzles so that the coaches could clean themselves. CB turned on one of the showerheads, then began stripping off his outer armor. His cupola hat was set aside, revealing reddish brown hair that curled a little once free, and he unlatched his heavy shoulderboxes and chestpiece. These pieces were set on the floor, he’d scrub them out one he himself was clean. 

Without his outer pieces, CB felt very bare. The shoulder and chest pieces bulked him up considerably, without them everyone could see his skinny shoulders and narrow chest. He wasn’t very impressive to look at. 

Grabbing a bottle of soap and a brush from near the door, CB quickly ducked under the water and began scrubbing himself briskly. He wanted to be in and out as fast as possible. 

Of course, he hadn’t realized quite how nice it was to shower in mech form. CB found himself humming as he dug his fingers into his hair, making sure to get all the dirt out from the curly strands. The water swirling around the drain slowly changed from brown to clear, and finally CB started to feel truly clean. 

As he reveled in the feeling of warm water cascading over his form, CB let his attention lapse. A foreign sound met his ears, and he instantly whipped around to see someone else peering into the washrack. He’d been caught.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chartreuse  
> You know I like that big caboose  
> It's sure sweet  
> lights my fuse
> 
> \- "Chartreuse" ZZ Top

Staring at the door to the washrack, ready to make any number of excuses, CB felt his mind go blank as he caught sight of the amazingly gorgeous coach looking at him. Her shoulderboxes were a rich mahogany wood, while her upholstery was white with delicate china patterns. She was clearly a high-end, first class car. 

“Excuse me? This is the coach washrack.”

CB was too busy staring at her lips, pale brown with gilt detailing, to read what they had said to him. 

“Excuse me?” She waved her hand, refocusing the caboose’s attention. CB gave himself a shake and turned off the shower. Right, not the time to go googly-eyed over a pretty car. 

“I’m sorry.” He said, gesturing at his ear and deciding to play dumb, “I can’t hear. I’m deaf. What did you say?”

“Oh!” The coach frowned and looked around for something convenient to write on, maybe, so they could communicate, but there was nothing. “Uh. . .how should we-“

“If you speak very slowly, I can sometimes understand.” CB suggested.

“Um. I said ‘this is the coach shower.’” She repeated, very slowly and as clearly as she could. 

CB still didn’t pick up all of it, but he got the gist of what she was trying to say. “Oh. Yes. My crew, they left for a few days and our last train was very dusty. I wanted to get clean, I hoped no one would be here so late.” He went over to grab his outer pieces, “Sorry, I’ll leave.”

“No. It’s okay. You can stay.” She stopped him before he could pick up his chestbox. “It doesn’t look like you’re clean yet.”

CB was a bit confused, until she pointed to his dust-streaked chest and shoulderboxes. Oh. She wanted him to stay. 

“My name is Ambrosia.” The coach held out a delicate hand. 

“Ambrosia?” CB repeated, waiting until she nodded to indicate he’d gotten it right. All the practice trying to read his brakeman’s lips was paying off. “I’m CB.” He offered, shaking her hand. 

“So. What is a pretty car doing here in the dead of night?” CB asked curiously, hefting his chestbox and turning the showerhead back on. 

Next to him, Ambrosia paused in the action of removing her skirt. “Well, I. Couldn’t sleep.” She gestured to her midsection, which CB suddenly noticed was looking a bit.. . round. His grin became a little more forced, and inside his hopes fell. Of course such a pretty coach was already with someone, and was part of the yard breeding program to boot. She’d probably just come from a full maintenance job, and was having a coachling before returning to work. 

CB swallowed heavily, “You have a mate?”

“Yes,” A smile lit up Ambrosia’s face, “His name is Iron Horse.”

Iron Horse. CB felt like he knew that name. . . . Oh. That was the engine who had attempted to have him against the wall the other night. Charming. How could such a brute of an engine get such a pretty gal? “I thought he was a freight engine. How did he bag such a beautiful and charming coach?”

Ambrosia blushed brightly at the compliment, setting the fabric of her skirt aside before removing her shoulderboxes. “He was a passenger engine.”

“What was that?” CB had to ask her to repeat herself, forgetting to pay attention to her lips for a moment at the sight of her bosoms. He’d never seen a nude coach before, and it was a bit. . . distracting.

“He used to be a passenger engine.” Ambrosia said again, making sure to look directly at CB and speak more clearly. If she noticed his gaze slipping, she didn’t say anything. 

Ah, so Iron Horse had been a passenger engine, but was booted to freight duty after being displaced by the latest model of engine. No wonder the steamer was so irritable and looking for a hate fuck. 

“I think I’ve been on his trains.” Was all CB could say. She probably didn’t need to know her mate was a bully. Of course, she also probably didn’t care if her engine abused freight cars. Few coaches did. 

“It’s been hard for him.” Ambrosia plucked out the decorative napkin comb that held her hair up in a neat bun, letting the auburn locks fall around her shoulders. “We never see each other anymore, he’s always out on the freight trains. And I’m in the shed, no trains until the little one comes.”

CB didn’t understand any of what she was saying, but nodded sympathetically as though he did. Taking a brush, he slowly began scrubbing the dirt from his outer armor pieces and allowed Ambrosia to vent all her frustrations and thoughts to him. 

Though CB did his best to draw out the process of getting clean, he couldn’t stay there forever. Natural light started to filter into the shower, a sign that the sun was rising outside. CB was gently scrubbing Ambrosia’s back, having finished his own washing, and could feel the coach starting to fall asleep standing up. 

“You should go to bed.” CB suggested, reaching over and turning off the water. 

“Yes. I probably should.” Ambrosia agreed. 

CB hit the button that turned on the forced air, quickly drying the two cars, then picked up Ambrosia’s skirt and helped her tie it about her waist. She tried to reciprocate by picking up his chestpiece, but CB only waved her off and affixed his outer armor himself. Ambrosia didn’t need to dirty herself with his shoddy freight car siding. 

“Thank you for staying to listen to me ramble.” Ambrosia commented as she affixed her own shoulderboxes. CB cocked his head, and the coach flushed as she remembered that he probably had not, in fact, been listening to her. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“

“I don’t mind.” Over the last hour or so, CB had gotten pretty good at reading lips. It was really the first time he’d had a chance to do so, most other trainfolk didn’t bother to speak slower so he could try and understand him. They just got frustrated and left. “You have been patient with me. And didn’t throw me out of the washrack.” He joked. 

Ambrosia laughed, which turned into a yawn. CB gently pushed her out the door, steering her towards the coach shed, then made his own way back to the freight yard. He would have to wash himself more often.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me sit on the right-hand side  
> A-hold of the throttle and the Johnson bar,  
> And make our rough old hogger ride  
> At the other end in the old waycar  
> Just watch him try to stay in the hack  
> When I start the train with the air and slack  
> And hear him holler when his head I drove  
> Right in behind the crummy stove
> 
> \- "Put the Hogger in the Crummy" B.H. Terry

Over the next few days, CB made a point of lurking around the washrack even though he was already thoroughly clean, just in the hopes of seeing Ambrosia again. To his great disappointment, however, the dining car did not reappear. After almost getting caught by the other coaches, CB was forced to give up his vigil and return to the caboose track. 

When his crew returned from their short time off, they were quite pleased to find that their caboose was much neater and more dust-free than they had left him. Terry even complimented CB on his ability to wash himself, earning a glare from the much larger caboose.

‘See. You used the engine wash just fine.’ Terry had felt perhaps a little cruel leaving CB so filthy before he took his time off, but knew the caboose would be able to figure something out. 

‘Well. I used the coach wash.’ CB admitted, frown changing to a bit of a dreamy smile. ‘I met a coach.’

Terry raised an eyebrow at that, watching as his caboose suddenly resembled a lovestruck puppy. “You sly dog!” He exclaimed before he could help it, giving CB a friendly punch to the kneepad. He remembered himself after a moment and switched back to sign. ‘So, what is she like?’

‘Her name is Ambrosia.’ CB finger-spelled out her name. ‘She is very pretty. But, she is also with someone else.’

“Oh.” Terry knew that feeling all too well. ‘Don’t worry. There are other coaches.’

CB shook his head, looking away. There were other coaches, but they didn’t pay any attention to freight cars. Especially not cabooses. There was no one else like Ambrosia. 

Any further thoughts of his crush were interrupted by Ernst hollering for both his brakeman and caboose. There was no rest for the wicked, however, or railroad employees for that matter.

Soon, CB and his crew were off on another slow freight across the wide expanses of the road. Black clouds on the horizon meant rain approaching, and soon enough a thunderstorm had enveloped them. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled outside as the train soldiered on through the storm. Inside the caboose, however, things were warm and light. The gas lamps and coal stove glowed, keeping the hind-end crew cozy as Terry lounged in the ‘doghouse’ and Ernst filled out paperwork at his desk. 

Through the cupola windows, the only time the rest of the train came into view past the driving rain was when a flash of lightning illuminated the tracks for a short, blinding second. Terry was just praying that he wouldn’t get called out to brake in this sort of weather when there was a great crash and something hit him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him and nearly throwing him out of the cupola. 

The culprit quickly turned out to be an enormous goose, somehow blown through the cupola window in the storm. The intruder fell to the floor of the caboose, scattering feathers about, and immediately began tearing up the room while honking in irritation. 

“What in blue blazes?!” Ernst leapt to his feet, trying to get out of the way of the irate feathered fowl who had come snapping at his knees and out for blood. “Terry!”

“Coming, Skipper!” A dazed Terry carefully climbed down from the cupola and immediately had to dodge the goose. “Ack, shit!”

Papers and supplies scattered everywhere as the two men and goose chased each other. Terry accidently jumped against the coal stove, burning his arm, but finally they managed to corner the goose. Ernst darted forward and got one hand around the fowl’s neck, snapping it, and finally the chaos ended. 

Terry wrapped up his hand and climbed back up into the cupola to stuff a cushion into the broken window, stopping up the rain that had been falling in freely, while Ernst found a rope to hang up the dead goose and start plucking it. They deserved a good roast goose dinner after this one. 

 

There was little CB could do except smart over the broken window as the train continued on. They passed from the endless fields and into sparse forests that gradually grew thicker, signaling their approach to the mountains that bordered the caboose’s territory. There, the train was forced to come to a halt. A culvert which normally directed a small waterfall underneath the tracks had been overwhelmed by the rainstorm, sending water over the tracks and washing out the ballast supporting them. There would be no going over that stretch of track until a team came out to make it safe again. 

Reluctantly, the train backed down the tracks the way they had come until they reached the nearest telegraphers office. They’d be able to contact a repair crew that way, and it would give the head-end crew a place to sleep since there were no bunks for the engineer or fireman in the caboose. 

As the engine crew bedded down their engine for the day, Ernst and Terry went to check on the rest of the train. Once his crew left, CB took the chance to change. The twinge of the broken window turned into a headache, making him wince and put his head in his hands. Too bad they were far from a repair shop and there wasn’t much he could do about it. 

Terry looked up at his caboose with sympathy as he saw the car sitting on the ground clutching his head. He had been told time and again that the rolling stock did not feel pain, but it was clear that the broken cupola window was giving CB some kind of discomfort. Clearly, a lot of what was “common knowledge” about trainfolk was wrong. 

A wave of his hands drew CB’s attention, then Terry could sign to ask how he was doing. 

CB waggled his hand in a non-commital gesture. He would survive. A broken window was nothing. 

‘We will fix it when we get home.’ Terry promised. ‘Now, change back so we can eat dinner?’

With a roll of his eyes, CB agreeably returned to his boxy caboose form so that his crew could take their dinner off the stove. The goose wasn’t ready yet, it still needed to be gutted eand would be given the entire next day to roast, so that evening Terry, Ernst, and the front brakeman dug into a hearty Mulligan stew instead. 

After all was done and the brakeman had sat down to wash the dishes, Conductor Ernst went into the telegraph office to scrounge up a few boards and some nails. Blankets stuffed into the cupola window wouldn’t do much if it began to storm again. The old Conductor thought nothing of climbing up onto the roof of his caboose and securing some two-by-fours over the busted window. Instead, though, Terry couldn’t help but wince with every bang of the hammer, and wondered how it felt to have nails driven in to a wooden body. 

 

Fortunately for all, the road crews worked quickly and by the end of the next day the track had been declared safe for passage. Though the train crew had certainly enjoyed their ‘day off’, and the telegraphers certainly seemed to enjoy the company, it was soon time to get underway again. 

The boxcars had engaged in a spirited wrestling match in the night, and were still lazing about trackside when the orders came to move on, so their engine got up and started yelling at them until they were brought back in line. CB and his crew simply watched as the unruly freight cars were ordered about. One last go-round with their order cards to make sure the boxcars had ended up back in their proper arrangement, and the train got moving. 

Of course, because the timing of train orders is never convenient, that was also just about when dinner was ready. The goose had been prepared that morning and left roasting on the hot coals of the oven all day, until the smell filled the caboose like Christmas Dinner. Ernst carefully waited until the train had begun rolling forwards to remove the fowl from the oven to serve. Terry’s mouth watered at the sight. It was beautiful. 

At the head of the train, their engine had no idea of the preparations happening back in the caboose, and even if he had known, he didn’t particularly care. All he knew was that they were a day behind schedule, the weather was gloomy and looked like rain, and he really wanted to get back to his shed at the yard. 

Heedless of the fact that the rest of the train was hardly moving, the engine opened his throttle and quickly began gaining speed. Snorting and panting, the engine went faster and faster and dragged the rest of the train helplessly behind. 

CB’s only warning that he was about to be jerked abruptly from 10 to 30 miles an hour was the hollow banging sound of couplings going taut coming closer and closer until he was heaved forward with a WHAM. 

Inside, all Terry registered was the sound of glass breaking and a pain in the back of his head as he was thrown through the window of the rear door of the caboose. Ernst landed in a most undignified manner between his brakeman’s kicking legs, a boot to the head dazing him. That is, until the whole roast goose landed on him. The hot grease took a moment to soak through his shirt, but when it did the old Conductor found his feet with a shout. 

Terry managed to pull his head and shoulders back through the window just in time to see his Conductor, coated in grease with a growing lump on his head, look down at the goose and trimmings scattered across the floor and exclaim, “Son of a BITCH!”

Such was life at the hind-end.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where was you momma, when the train left the shed?  
> Where was you momma, when the train left the shed?  
> Standin' in my front door, wishin' to God, I was dead
> 
> \- "The Brakeman's Blues" Jimmie Rodgers

When CB finally returned to his home yard, his first stop was to the car shop. He not only needed a new cupola window, he was also now in need of a new door. It hadn’t handled the weight of a full-grown brakeman being slammed against it very well. 

Grumpily, CB sat in the shop and enduring having the boards removed from over his broken window and having a new one fitted. Getting the nails pulled was a sensation akin to having hairs plucked, more irritating than painful, but mostly CB just hated being in the shop in the first place. He was just a big, inanimate object to the workers. They didn’t even try to talk to him. Not that CB could’ve heard them, but an attempt would’ve been nice. To have the acknowledgement that he was alive. 

At the end of it, though, the caboose had been fitted with a new window and new door, and was as good as new. CB was about to leave when he spotted a flash of familiar fabric and joy sparked through his system. Heedless of the workers still milling about him, the caboose transformed and skated over towards the other end of the shop. “Ambrosia!”

The dining car turned in surprise at the shout before recognition came over her features. “Oh! Hello. CB, was it?”

CB nodded, elated at seeing his name on her lips. “Yes! It’s good to see you again. Are you okay, why are you in the shop?”

“I’m fine.” Ambrosia said with a laugh. “Me and the little one were just getting a check up.” She patted her middle for emphasis. “Why are you here?”

“New cupola window.” CB explained, pointing at his hat where fresh red paint was still evident around the edges of the new window. “A goose crashed through the last one.”

“A goose?!” Ambrosia repeated in surprise. “That sounds like a story.”

As the two cars skated out of the shop, CB eagerly told the story of the wild goose that crashed through his cupola and into his brakeman. Ambrosia listened intently, never pointing out how CB’s pronunciation worsened the more excited he got and how his slur became more pronounced. And when she asked questioned, she never complained when CB had to ask her to repeat herself. Ambrosia was officially the nicest car CB had ever met, and he was smitten. 

Of course, no good thing lasts forever. They didn’t get far from the shop before Ambrosia’s boyfriend Iron Horse found her. The coach broke off from CB’s retelling of the Loss of the Turkey Dinner to throw her arms around the engine and give him a kiss with a happy squeal. She didn’t see the death glare that CB gave Iron Horse, though the engine certainly did and just smirked in return. 

“Come on, sweetie, let’s go back to the shed.” Iron Horse suggested, wrapping an arm around Ambrosia’s shoulders. 

“Okay, Horsie.” Ambrosia turned and gave CB a little wave before leaving with her boyfriend. “Bye CB!”

Fuming, CB turned and stormed off back towards the caboose track. 

 

A few minutes later, his brakeman had been located and CB’s hands were a fury of motion as he explained his frustration. That he had talked to the most gorgeous coach in the world, and it wasn’t fair because she already had a boyfriend, who was the world’s biggest asshole. And why didn’t she just leave that engine and date him instead? 

“Whoa, whoa,” Terry held up his hands, making CB come to a stuttering stop. ‘Maybe she really likes her boyfriend?’

CB frowned. ‘But he is rude and mean.’

‘Well. You can’t make her like you instead of him.’ Terry reasoned. ‘There are lots of other pretty coaches around.’

With a loud huff, CB crossed his arms to indicate he was done talking. Terry rolled his eyes in response, motioning for CB to transform if he wasn’t going to keep complaining. His caboose could be in a snit all he wanted, Terry intended to make dinner and go to bed. 

CB stuck his tongue out, but eventually changed shape so that the brakeman could come aboard. He couldn’t disobey a direct order, but he could be an ass about it should the mood strike. 

 

As the weeks passed, the weather grew steadily worse. Fall was officially upon them, and with it brought the rains. Delays became more common as washouts undermined the tracks and bridges were overwhelmed by floodwaters, rains coming down so heavy at times it was impossible to even see the head-end from the caboose. 

Terry hated being called out to brake in such weather, but couldn’t ignore the summons from the locomotive. And so, when he heard that whistle sound, he geared up in his oilskins and went out to walk the tops of the cars with his brake club. 

Dinner was just being served one evening when the familiar call came. Terry sighed and stood up, walking over to get his foul-weather gear and brake club. “Keep the mulligan hot for me, skipper!”

With that, Terry stepped out onto the back porch in the driving rain and disappeared over the tops of the cars, as he had so many times before. Except that this time, he never came back. 

Ernst waited, and waited, until finally the front brakeman came to report that he never met Terry in the middle of the train as they always did. There was no sign of the rear brakeman. 

Slowly, the train made its way to the next telegraph stop so that word could be sent out to management. The next morning a new brakeman arrived so that they could continue their run, as well as a team to search the tracks for Terry. Ernst didn’t give up hope until they finally found his body, down a gully beside the tracks. He had most likely slipped off the top of the cars and fallen, dead on impact. It was the way a lot of brakeman went, really. The job had a very high turnover rate for a reason. 

The ride back to the trainyard was subdued. Their front brakeman had been shifted to the caboose, with the new brakeman taking his place on the locomotive footplate, but it wasn’t really the same. Everyone was silently mourning the loss of a bright, friendly young man, but work had to continue and trains didn’t stop just for one brakeman. 

Once they reached their home yard, and CB had been shunted onto the caboose track with the others of his kind, Ernst respectfully got out and took the brakeman with him. As soon a they were clear, CB transformed and looked down as his Conductor with confused, sad eyes. The older man could only shrug and sign a simple ‘sorry.’ CB shook his head, then abruptly skated away. 

Curiously, the brakeman looked over at Ernst, “What was that about?”

“Just thought he might want to mourn in his own way is all.” Ernst ignored the strange look the brakeman gave him and headed for the crew breakroom. Terry had other friends on the road that needed to be told. 

 

CB wasn’t sure where to go or what to do. He knew he wouldn’t have the same crew forever, no rolling stock did. Humans came and went out of their life, some stayed for years and others mere months. Still, he hadn’t expected to lose Terry so suddenly. One minute the man had been walking across his roof, as he had done a million times before, and the next he was gone. 

He wanted to talk to someone, another car that might understand, but who would listen to him? Without even consciously realizing it, CB found his wheels taking him towards the coach shed. Yes, that was it. Ambrosia would listen to him. 

Knocking on the door to the shed, it was unfortunately not the dining car that answered. Instead, a young coach with dark mahogany woods and red velvet drapes poked her head out to regard him curiously. A Pullman car, with the name “Memphis Belle” written in elegant script on one shoulder box, she was unlikely to be much help. Pullman cars never stuck around long, only a season before moving on, and it was a toss-up whether she would even know the names of all the coaches of the yard. Still, CB tried. 

“I’m looking for Ambrosia,” The caboose announced without ceremony. 

“Um, I’m not sure-“ Memphis Belle hesitated, looking back over her shoulder. A voice from deeper in the shed yelled something in response. “She isn’t here.”

CB waited just long enough to see the coach shake her head, before stomping his foot and skating off. Ambrosia was probably with her precious Iron Horse. 

The caboose kept going until he found an isolated corner of the yard to silently self-destruct in. He wasn’t sure where his crew would be sleeping that night, and he suddenly found himself unable to care.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And every now and then you'll hear a whistle on the wind  
> When the mountain slides and many men're lost  
> It's a high and lonely wailin' searching up and down the mountain  
> It's the train they call the Miner's Silver Ghost.
> 
> \- "Silver Ghost" Merle Haggard

The only person who really noticed a change in CB’s behavior was his Conductor, Ernst, who felt helpless as he watched the formerly talkative caboose become more reculsive. No one else in the yard paid any attention to the “funny” deaf caboose, except maybe to tease him. Even the new brakeman wasn’t terribly interested in getting to know the caboose he now worked with, not that CB was making any attempt in return. 

Winter had come with a vengeance, snow and ice causing delays all across the lines. When the train had to stop one evening to address a hotbox, because even the cold couldn’t keep axle bearings from overheating, Ernst sent his rear brakeman back to flag. After a moment’s consideration, he sent CB with the man as well. It was dark and a flag would be needed just beyond the tunnel they had passed. A twenty-foot-tall caboose would be more noticeable than a man with a lantern. 

Reluctantly, CB decoupled from the train and changed shape, slowly following the brakeman down the rails as the man counted the paces. A train tunnel loomed, dark and silent, they would have to pass through to the other side to make a safe distance to flag in case of other trains. 

The rear brakeman, a young man by the name of Caldwell, shone his lantern into the blackness and shivered as he entered the tunnel. The fact that he wasn’t alone was a minor comfort, his big, silent shadow wasn’t exactly talkative. 

Emerging from the other side of the tunnel, Caldwell looked up behind him to see CB still framed by the black stone archway. The caboose was lit only by the bright red of his signal lamps and the slightly softer blue of his eyes, casting the rest of his lanky body with an eerie hue. 

“Why do I have to work with the creepy silent one.” Caldwell muttered as he stamped his feet, trying to keep feeling in his toes. His companion didn’t have such problems, standing silent and still as he stared off down the dark tracks. 

Caldwell’s previous caboose had been rather surly and ill-tempered but at least it had been willing to make conversation on lonely watches. Nothing too intelligent, railroad cars weren’t overly smart as a breed. They were just tools, after all, machines made to serve man. He wasn’t sure what his conductor saw in this crummy, Caldwell just saw another dumb car. 

CB glanced down at his brakeman, watching the human shuffle in place and blow on his mittened hands. The man’s breath fogged in the light of his lantern as he muttered to himself, nothing CB could hear or read from his lips. His new brakeman never tried to make conversation, and knew not a lick of sign. He was competent at his job, but he was no Terry. 

So, instead, CB watched the tracks. He would feel the hum of an approaching train long before he heard anything. 

It was there for a bit of a surprise to CB when a light appeared through the trees, beyond the bend in the tracks. The headlight of a locomotive. 

“Great, we got a train.” Caldwell raised his lantern higher, making sure the light shone clearly down the track. A whistle sounded in the distance, the noise echoing and eerie, as the oncoming train came closer. 

Why couldn’t he feel it? CB looked down at his wheels, firmly on the steel rails, and back up at the headlight that was rapidly growing larger. But there was no vibration, no shaking that would indicate a multi-ton train rolling towards them. 

The mournful cry of a steam whistle came again, loud enough this time for even CB to hear it. Ahead was the bright headlight, now they could see the shadowy shape of the locomotive behind it. Close enough for the engineer of the train to see them standing there. 

“Why isn’t he slowing down?” Caldwell waved his lantern more urgently. “Stop. STOP.”

CB was frozen in place. He couldn’t leave the tracks, and he wasn’t fast enough to turn tail and run from an engine. There was no fear, though. Resignation maybe. Curiosity, maybe, to see what kind of engine so large and so fast but could not be felt. Wondering what it would feel like to be wiped from the face of the earth. Would there be enough left to fix him, or this be it? One hit and done, just like a human.

Caldwell jumped back from the tracks as a black locomotive blew past him, whistle screaming, barreling straight for the caboose standing on the tracks. CB didn’t even close his eyes, he stood unflinching as the apparition flew straight through him like a warm summer wind. 

Both CB and Caldwell whipped around in time to see a train’s red marker lights blaze in the tunnel briefly before vanishing. Numbly, caboose and brakeman stared at each other. 

“God, I hate this job.” Caldwell cursed, clutching his chest. Damn ghost train. “You saw that too and I’m not crazy, right?”

CB just looked down at him, tilting his head in the way that indicated he hadn’t heard. “I knew it wasn’t real.” The caboose offered. “It didn’t vibrate the rails.”

Oh of course, the caboose knew it wasn’t real. Well, at least Caldwell hadn’t been hallucinating. 

The distant sound of a steam whistle made the brakeman flinch, but this time he could tell the source. It was their locomotive, calling brakeman and caboose back to the train. Caldwell breathed a sigh of relief and lit a red fusee, dropping it onto the track before starting the trek back towards the train. After a moment, CB followed after him. 

Back at the train, Ernst was waiting for them with the front brakeman. The old conductor breathed a sigh of relief when the tall form of CB appeared in the dark, red lights glowing bright, the latern held by Caldwell becoming clear a moment later. Ever since Terry, Ernst always worried when he sent his brakeman out of his sight. 

“You two alright?” Though Ernst knew it was cold, Caldwell looked paler than normal. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Don’t even start, Skipper.” Caldwell warned, setting his lantern down. “Can we get out of here?”

Ernst looked up at CB, who was watching them with blank glowing eyes, and signed the word ‘change.’ The caboose nodded, folding down to his car form and allowing the two humans to step aboard. 

As the train rolled away, CB kept his senses trained on the tunnel. Watching, waiting. A light shone out briefly from the dark, before the train rounded a curve and CB lost sight of it. 

 

The next day, a report came down the line. There had been a collision, a passenger train had slammed into the hind end of a stopped freight train, killing conductor, brakeman, and engineer. The caboose was also a total loss, though the engine had been taken to the shop and was expected be back on the rails soon. 

Apparently, the ghost train had been trying to warn them. At least, that’s all CB could think of. Why else would it have appeared to them? He sat on the edge of the yard and watched as the other cabooses mourned the loss of one of their own. CB had not been invited, of course, not that he much cared. He didn’t quite understand the sentiment anyway. Everything died, even their kind. Might as well accept it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There will be ac-ci-dents.  
> I know ac-ci-dents are coming.  
> Smash-ups, signals wrong, washouts, trestles rotten,  
> Red and yellow ac-ci-dents.  
> But somehow and somewhere the end of the run  
> The train gets put together again  
> And the caboose and the green tail lights  
> Fade down the right of way like a new white hope."
> 
> \- "Caboose Thoughts" Carl Sandburg

 

            Snow blanketed the railway from one end to the other. The freight trains faced frequent delays as a result, and shoveling was often required to get going again. Coal was consumed in prodigious amounts, both by the engines to fuel their steam and by CB to keep his stove roaring. His crew would come in, kick the snow from their boots, warm their frostbitten fingers over the stove, and pour a cup of coffee from the kettle kept piping hot at all times.

 

            One day, Conductor Ernst entered the caboose with a small fir tree in hand. The two-foot-tall bushy conifer was proudly propped up on a cabinet and draped with shiny metallic tinsel.  Brakeman Caldwell and the forward brakeman also added their own touches, paper stars and glass baubles set to hang from the tree’s stubby branches.

 

            Decorations of similar style were going up in the trackside towns, the human citizens papering their tallest trees with a variety of ornaments and garlands. The townspeople’s children were also hard at work using the snow to create armies of snowmen along the tracks and in the fields, their rocky smiles and stick arms waving to all the passing trains.

            Coming into a siding for the night after a long day, CB was able to transform and fix his conductor with a look that clearly said ‘why is there a tree in my interior?’

            “It’s just a Christmas Tree.” Ernst reassured his caboose. “We’re just trying to be festive.”

            CB had greatly improved his lip-reading skills, but they weren’t much help when the words his conductor were saying didn’t make any sense. “Christmas?”

            Ernst sighed. How did one explain the concept of religious holidays to a freight car? “You know. Peace and goodwill and giving gifts.”

            “And the tree?” CB still had no idea where that fit in with all of this.

            “It’s only for a couple of weeks. You’ll live.”

            CB frowned, not appreciating the idea of getting pine needles all over his interior, but his conductor’s word was law. So that was that.

           

            Later that day, Ernst slouched into the employee breakroom at the yard and sat down at a table with some other conductors with a heavy sigh.

            “What’s got you looking so glum, Ernst?” One of the other men pushed a mug of coffee his way. “Not more trouble with that hack of yours?”

            “Isn’t it always?” Ernst responded wryly, taking a big swig of coffee. “Of all the men to get the strange caboose, it has to be me.”

            “When you saw it was defective, you should’ve just refused and taken another.” Another conductor advised. “You’ve got enough seniority.”

            “I just wanted to get back to work.” Ernst defended, though internally he balked at the idea of CB getting assigned to someone else. Unbelievably, he had apparently grown attached to the caboose. Still, there were times he felt unsettled around CB. It was as though the caboose were a giant cat, and Ernst was never sure if he would get purrs and affection or claws and teeth. “He’s been real quiet lately, though. Ever since I lost Terry.”

            Heads at the table bowed briefly in acknowledgement of the loss of their fellow train man.

            “It ain’t shirking work, is it?” Conductor Shoemaker took a dim view of cars that tried to avoid their duties. “Cause sometimes hacks will do that.”

            “No, it’s not that.” Though CB occasionally grumbled about jobs, he always did what he was told and never caused any real trouble. “He just never talks or smiles anymore. I always catch him just starin’ at things. ‘s creepy.”

            The other men roared with laughter.

            “So that’s what’s got you all worried?” Shoemaker snorted. “My hack ain’t said two words to me in months. Doesn’t need to. All that beast needs to do is point if something’s wrong, and otherwise stay a car and give me a place to kip down at the end of the day. It’s not my _friend_ or anything.”

            Ernst grew silent and sipped at his coffee to avoid saying anything else. Had he really changed so much in less than a year, to have started thinking of his caboose as a friend instead of a tool? Terry had had quite the effect on his conductor, clearly.

            Wandering back to the caboose track, Ernst slowly walked between the identical red cars and carefully read the numbers printed on the flanks of each crummy. After two passes, Ernst determined that CB was not there and went to look for the errant caboose.

            Finding CB could always be a little tricky. While most of the freight cars could easily be found not far from the freight yard, and were often quite loud and noisy in their down time, CB moved very quietly and had a habit of wandering.

            Skirting the edge of the freight yard, Ernst watched a group of boxcars wrestling on the ballast while others watched. There was a lot of yelling and cheering going on, which meant it was most likely a friendly match as opposed to a serious dispute. No need for a human to intervene, the cars had to get their energy out somehow.

            There wasn’t any point in checking near the engine shed either. As far as Ernst could see, all the steamers were sitting around the still-glowing ashpile talking and telling stories with no caboose in sight. CB never went near engines anyway, as long as he could help it.

            No one was outside at the coach shed, but all the lights inside were on and the windows showed a faint view of large, moving bodies. From faint snippets of conversation, Ernst gathered there was some kind of party happening for a newborn coachling and kept going. Still no sign of his caboose.

            Finally, on the outskirts of the yard, Ernst found a tall, red figure seated just off the end of the tracks. There was a little hillock there, which afforded a view of the mainline stretching off into the distance across the plains. CB sat unmoving and stared along the silver rails, twin ribbons of fire orange reflecting the setting sun. Cars didn’t need to need to breathe, so the caboose was capable of sitting so still he was like a statue. His long limbs didn’t twitch, there was no rise or fall of his chest, and he made absolutely no sound.

            Despite having worked around rolling stock for many years, Ernst still felt a little shiver down his spine. _Why_ did he have to get the weird caboose? He debated for a moment whether it would be smart to startle CB by touching him before finally deciding against it. He had _some_ sense of self-preservation, after all. 

            Instead, Ernst clapped his hands together as loudly as he could. The sudden, sharp sound rang out in the otherwise silent night, and after a moment CB twisted around to fix his conductor with his blank blue gaze. “What?”

            “Are you gonna sit here all night, or are you gonna come back to the caboose track?” Ernst didn’t bother to attempt signing it, they’d be here all night while his fingers twisted themselves together. Besides, he knew CB was getting good at lip-reading, and he could see comprehension in those blue eyes.

            CB appeared to deliberate for a few seconds, before sighing heavily and pushing himself upright. Ernst instinctively took a few steps back as the caboose unfolded to his full height, then found himself having to jog after the freight car as he skated down the track back towards the yard. Boy, Ernst was getting sick of this “silent and stoic” routine. He never thought he’d say this, but he wanted the old “laughing and curious about everything” CB back.

           

           

            Christmas was the one day of the year that no trains ran and no work was done on the railway. For the human staff, it was a chance to be at home and celebrate with friends and family. For the rolling stock, it was an excuse to party. The coaches were throwing a big party at their shed and everyone had been invited. Well, everyone except CB that is. It was less out of deliberate malice, and more because everyone had just sort of forgotten he existed.

            On the eve of the holiday, after the last train had run, CB found himself faced with a decision to make. The caboose track around him was empty, for all the others had gone to the party, and he had no crew to occupy his time.

            Shifting into his bipedal shape, CB skated through the yard towards the coach shed. He hadn’t been personally invited, but surely no one would mind if he showed up anyway. Everyone else was there. Besides, this might be his chance to see the inside of the coach shed, and maybe talk to Ambrosia again.

            Despite the cold, the doors to the coach shed were thrown wide open to accommodate all the partiers. There were enough steam engines at the shindig to make the ventilation necessary, and the shed was really hardly large enough to hold all of the yard’s rolling stock. Party-goers had spilled out the confines of the shed to talk and chat outside, either to get a break from the noise or just to cool off in the chilly air. They paid CB no mind as he skated past them.

            Inside the shed, CB found himself having to squeeze through the mass of bodies filling the space. Trainfolk were everywhere, standing and talking and drinking with their friends. The chatter of so many voices created a dull buzz to CB’s ears, making it impossible for him to pick out any words even if he concentrated.

            The air was filled with a thick haze of smoke and steam from all of the engines in attendance, and CB was starting to wonder if he’d ever find Ambrosia in the chaos. He somehow ended up at the back of the shed, where a makeshift table had been set up to serve snacks and batches of high-grade oil. All of the brews looked equally strong, so CB grabbed the nearest can and gulped it down. It burned a bit on the way down, but didn’t seem inclined to come back up, so CB grabbed another of the same brew along with a fistful of crackers. They gave him something to gnaw on as he continued scanning the crowd for his target.

            Shouldering his way through the crowd, CB’s eyes flitted from coach to coach in the hopes that each might be Ambrosia. Most of the coaches were hanging off the arms of the passenger engines, recognizable by their gleaming paint and the wreaths they wore about their necks for the holiday season. Though the freight cars had been invited to the party, that didn’t necessarily mean the coaches would _mingle_ with them.

            Of course, CB couldn’t entirely blame them when he saw a drunken tanker car shove a boxcar to the floor before jumping on top of him to wrassle. If CB had his choice, he wouldn’t mingle with freight cars either.

            In one of the back corners, CB spied a pair of cabooses pawing at each other, intimate plating open and spikes extended. Cabooses were isolated from other rolling stock as a necessity, rarely having time for pleasure due to their human crews, but still. To do such things in public. A group of flatcars surrounded the amorous couple, oogling them and yelling encouragement, making CB grimace.

            Averting his eyes from the sight, CB grinned as he finally spotted who he was seeking. Ambrosia was standing with a group of other dining cars, looking tired and noticeably slimmer but still with a smile on her face as she chatted with her friends.

            CB took another big swig of his high grade and skated over to her, raising a hand in greeting. “Hi, Ambrosia!”

            Ambrosia broke off from her conversation and turned in surprise, though after a moment her face brightened in recognition. “Oh, hi, CB! How are you?”

            One of Ambrosia’s friends leaned over and muttered, “Who is that?”

            “His name is CB.” Ambrosia whispered back, “He’s deaf, the poor thing.”

            Their lowered voices did not prevent CB from reading their lips, but he pretended not to notice their words. “I’m okay.” He responded instead. “My crew is home for the holiday, so I came to the party. How is your trainlet?”

            “Oh, she’s doing very well.” Ambrosia beamed at the thought of her daughter, “She’s asleep in the back room. You should come see her tomorrow after the party.”

            CB nodded eagerly. “I would love to!” He had never seen a trainlet, and didn’t particularly care about them, but any excuse to spend more time with Ambrosia.

            The other coaches giggled, though CB wasn’t sure what he said that was so funny. Then, a heavy, hot hand landed on his shoulderbox. CB turned around and looked up at Iron Horse looming over him. The steamer didn’t seem to be very happy about finding a caboose talking up his coach.

            “Hi, darling. Is this _crummy_ bothering you?” Iron Horse smiled in a decidedly unfriendly way.

            “CB isn’t bothering me, dear.” Ambrosia patted her mate on the arm soothingly, “He’s just a bit slow. Don’t be so hard on him.”

            “I just want to talk with Ambrosia.” CB said defensively, wanting to make it clear that he was capable of speaking for himself.

            “Ah juuust wanna taaaalk with Aaaaambrosia.” Iron Horse repeated mockingly, exaggerating the lilting speech pattern of CB’s words. “Well, what if I don’t want you to talk to Ambrosia?”

            He moved closer to CB, clearly aiming to intimidate the smaller caboose through size. CB was uncomfortably reminded of having the steamer’s hands on his body, covering his mouth and rubbing at his crotch. Anger burned in CB’s body, and before he knew what he was doing, his arm cocked back and his fist flew out to sock Iron Horse right on the jaw.

            Iron Horse reared back, more surprised than hurt, while CB shook out the sting in his bruised knuckles. He had probably broken something in his hand, but at that moment he didn’t give a shit. That had felt _good_.

            Of course, the moment didn’t last long. Ignoring a cry of “No, Horsie! Stop!” from Ambrosia, Iron Horse returned the hit with one of his own that knocked CB to the ground. The caboose groaned and struggled to raise himself back up, stars flashing behind his eyes from the blow.

            Despite having trouble focusing on the figure standing over him, CB still growled and gave the steam engine his best glare. He would _not_ be cowed by this bully.

            Then, something surprising happened. Another car stepped in front of CB, and this one was bright red. The other caboose put himself between Iron Horse and CB, raising his fists in challenge. Ambrosia’s earlier yelling had attracted the attention of everyone else in the party, who were now staring at the fighters.

            Iron Horse was all too ready to beat up on another caboose, raising his fists and preparing to strike, when third caboose joined the fracas. And a fourth. CB slowly pushed himself up to his wheels and stared at the others standing around him. On his side.

            “Back off, _Hog_.” One of the cabooses sneered. “Us crummies don’t take any shit from your kind.”

            “You think I can’t take a few stupid hacks?” Iron Horse looked at the cars facing him, a cocky grin on his face. Under it, though, there was a touch of fear. “I’ll turn all of you to splinters, see if I don’t.”

            “I’m not afraid of any steel-headed steamer.” CB wiped a trail of oil trickling from his split lip and look at Iron Horse defiantly. “Do your worst.”

            Iron Horse looked between the cabooses, sizing them up, before finally scoffing and relaxing from his fighting pose. “I don’t have the time to brawl with _cripple homes_. We’ll see how you like your next train ride.” With that, Iron Horse turned on his heel and skated out of the shed, the crowds parting to let him pass.

            Ambrosia looked between CB and her mate’s back, before skating after Iron Horse.

            CB slumped in place, and allowed helpful hands to guide him back to one of the walls of the shed so he had something to lean against. The other cabooses melted back into the crowd, and gradually the party got going again. CB wasn’t watching the revelers enjoying their holiday, though. He was now very certain about one thing; Iron Horse had to go.

 

           


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There's a long black train, coming down the line  
> Feeding off the souls that are lost and crying"
> 
> \- Josh Turner, "Long Black Train"

           

            Of course, figuring out how to get Iron Horse out of the picture was easier said than done. For one, the engine was only one of multiple freight engines owned by the railroad, so CB only occasionally was put on his trains at all. And it would be very hard to get to Iron Horse while in the yard. Though the fight at the Christmas Party had turned out in CB’s favor, he knew full well he’d have his ass handed to him if he tried anything while other steam engines were around. It would have to be done while on a train, when CB could get Iron Horse alone without any help. The other freight cars wouldn’t do anything to defend an engine, so there wouldn’t be anyone to interfere.

            So, CB started to make plans. At first, he contented himself with riding with his brakes partially on while at the end of Iron Horse’s trains. It wouldn’t stop the engine, he could easily overpower the brakes of a lightweight caboose, but it at least made him pant and work harder. CB just had to be careful to not let his crew notice, lest he spend a week in the repair shed having his brakes serviced.

            Fueling his ire was the fact that, after the fight, Ambrosia wouldn’t speak to him anymore. Clearly, Iron Horse had been telling her lies about him, because the only thing he got when he saw the coach in the yard was a frosty look. Obviously, CB wouldn’t be getting to meet her little coachling any time soon.

            And so, CB schemed. In his free time away from his crew, the caboose sat and watched the engines. Observing how they moved, how their systems worked, and what their possible weak points could be. Dousing an engine’s fire was too obvious. Sure, without a fire the engine couldn’t operate, but all they had to do was dump out the wet coal and replace it with fresh fuel. Not nearly humiliating enough. CB wanted to make Iron Horse suffer, wanted to make him _hurt_.

            Months passed and seasons changed, winter giving way to spring, then to the balmy days of summer. Ambrosia’s daughter was now a gangly, excitable youngling, skating through the yard and chattering at all the other trainfolk. CB watched from a distance, but didn’t dare approach. The trainlet was never far from an adult coach, even after her mother was placed back on regular duty.

In his quest to injure and/or massively inconvenience Iron Horse, CB had tried a few little tricks here and there. Puncturing the water line that fed water from Iron Horse’s tender to his boiler, in the hopes that the engine would run out of water and explode. (No luck, his crew noticed the dropping water levels and put into a siding to call for another engine.) Dumping water into his tender to dampen his coal. (Slightly more effective, it took several hours of drying coal in the sun to get a fire going so they could move on to a coaling tower.) And just being a general nuisance.

So far, CB had discovered that Iron Horse slept like a rock, was very easily pissed off by minor inconveniences, and was very fond of speeding on the track if he thought he was even a tiny bit behind schedule. CB could use that.

Finally, circumstances seemed to align in CB’s favor. Their train was already running behind schedule, due to a hotbox and CB “accidently” leaving his brakes on, and they had been forced to put into a siding for the night. When darkness fell, CB noticed his crew sneaking out, presumably to do some “foraging” at a nearby farmhouse, and he was left alone. Though some of the freight cars were lounging around the track having some quiet fun with eachother, Iron Horse had just finished a good fuck session with one of the flatcars and was now solidly asleep.

With all of his lights off, CB transformed and crept slowly towards the sleeping engine. It was a moonless, cloudy night, so even his large form was nigh invisible against the stars and fields.

Once alongside Iron Horse, who was helpfully sprawled out beside the track (it was very difficult to tell if rolling stock were actually asleep in car form), CB reached under his plating and pulled out a human-sized knife. It would’ve been rather large to his crew, but CB had to delicately hold it between thumb and forefinger as he crouched down next to the sleeping engine. Carefully, the caboose picked out the engine’s brake line from among the many other steam lines on his body and gave the thick rubber hose a quick prick. Cutting it would be too obvious, but a hole would ensure that Iron Horse’s brakes would come on, but with far less effectiveness than they should.

Task complete, CB went back to his place on the track and settled back down into car form. Tomorrow, they would pull out from the siding and continue down the track. Ahead, CB knew, there was a downhill grade followed by a curve in the track. Iron Horse would be rushing, as he always was, and when his brakes failed to fully activate on the approach to the curve he would derail, and hopefully roll over in the process. It probably wouldn’t kill him, just put him out of service for a little while, but it would be satisfying to watch from safely at the back of the train.

For all his planning, though, there were a few factors that CB could never have taken into account. The first was that the section of line ahead was double-tracked, which meant it was possible they might not be the only train in that section of trackage. And the second was that some local youthful hooligans had pulled out a few of the nails securing the rail to wooden ties where the track curved, causing the rails to come slightly out of alignment. If an engine was doing the posted speed such a thing wouldn’t be catastrophic, the train would just leave the track and ground into the gravel alongside it. After all, the kids didn’t want to kill anyone, they just wanted a good laugh. They would certainly be getting more than they asked for once daylight broke.

 

 

In the morning, as the train reassembled itself and was checked over by the human crews, CB worked to keep from vibrating in anticipation. He had to stay cool, calm, and collected. No one would suspect anything. He couldn’t allow out the laughter that wanted to bubble forth until after the derail, when it would be acceptable. Any caboose liked to laugh at the misfortune of engines.

The train pulled out of the siding with no sign of trouble and continued down the track. As CB had predicted, Iron Horse was frustrated with the delays and was working himself up to a pretty fair rate of speed. Trackside scenery flashed by as they continued to gain speed,, even as the downhill grade loomed ahead.

            Iron Horse had no idea anything was wrong until the train began to roll down the grade and he tried to brake. Steam spurted from the hole in the engine’s brakeline, and his brakeshoes weakly tried to press against his wheels. It wasn’t enough, not with the heavy freight train behind pushing Iron Horse onwards towards the curve ahead.

            It was then that the other train came into sight. A passenger train with a string of coaches, coming from the other direction on the second line of track. Iron Horse’s attempts to stop became more desperate, and his whistle blew in warning. The other train braked, but there was really nothing either party could do.

            When Iron Horse’s heavy steel wheels hit the weakened flange in the track, at a speed too great for the curve to handle even in normal circumstances, he flew off the trails headed directly for the oncoming train.

            The two engines met with a tremendous scream of twisting metal and escaping steam, boilers splitting along the seams from the strain as their metal bodies gave way. Behind the passenger engine, the coaches slammed into each other from the sudden halt. As wooden coaches were wont to do, their couplings gave way as platforms buckled and their bodies slid inside the coach ahead. It was an action known as telescoping, and certain death to both coach and passenger.

            CB could only watch the destruction he had wrought from the rear of his own train, split-seconds stretching into eternities as the boxcars ahead of him surged at their couplings and tipped over, dragging their companions with them. Both brakemen had been atop the train, trying in vain to stop it, and were helpless as they were thrown from the bucking freight cars. CB broke his coupling, releasing himself from the car in front of him, but his momentum carried him into the wreckage anyway. The caboose’s wheels left the track as he too flopped over onto his side next to the track.

            As the screech of twisting metal silenced, the air was instead filled with the moans and screams of trapped humans trying to escape their fate. Ernst, the old conductor, dragged himself from his caboose and stumbled over to the burning wreck of the passenger train to try and save who he could. CB managed a slow and painful transformation, but found himself unable to stand. His trucks were broken, and something in his frame was twisted. All he could do was lift his head and watch.

           

 

            Eventually, one of the survivors reached a telegraph station so that word of the wreck could be sent out. All rail traffic was halted, save for an express train to collect the survivors so they could be rushed to hospitals, and an engine to remove the boxcars that could still roll. It would be another day before the wrecking crew came to take care of the dead.

            CB remained lying alongside the track, forced to wait for a flatcar to arrive that could transport him back to the shop. Around him was scattered the wreckage of his creation. Splinters of wood and bits of train still smoldered, fires burning down to embers. The sun was setting, twilight casting an orange glow over the scene that made it seem almost beautiful to CB’s addled brain.

            Suddenly, a shape moved in the stillness of the wreck. An engine had pulled up on the scene and changed form, standing tall over the wreckage. It was soot black, and made no noise as it seemed to pick through the burned remains of the passenger train. Then, equally shadowy shapes rose from the carnage. The ghostly coaches had only the faintest colors to their form, and CB could see right through them as they lined up behind the engine. His breath hitched as he saw that one of the coaches was Ambrosia, looking sad and sorrowful as she took her place in the ghost train. The coaches changed shape, allowing the smaller ghosts of dead humans to climb aboard.

            More shapes rose, including Iron Horse and the passenger engine and several freight cars that joined the train as passengers continued to board. Even the two brakemen dutifully plodded aboard. CB only had eyes for Ambrosia, though.

            “Take me.” CB found the words coming to his lips before he even knew quite what he was saying. “Take me!”

            The black engine looked at him with eyes that were hollow and blank, then shook his head and turned away. The whole train began to fade from sight, disappearing into the growing night.

            “No!” CB struggled to sit up, but his body was too broken. “Take me! Take me!”

            It was too late. The ghost train was gone.

            CB let his head fall back against the grass, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He didn’t begin to cry, however. Instead, he started to laugh. It was a hysterical, desperate sound, and it filled the silent air all around. The sound was better than the silence, and so CB continued to laugh. For all that he had done, and all that he would do.


End file.
